


Window in Your Heart

by the_moonmoth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Past Abuse, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:30:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/pseuds/the_moonmoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Losing love / is like a window in your heart / everybody sees you're blown apart – Paul Simon, <i>Graceland</i>. On the Quiet Isle, Sansa finds a ghost in the lichyard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As yet unfinished fill from [comment fic meme 1](http://sansa-sandor.livejournal.com/43009.html) on [sansa_sandor](http://sansa-sandor.livejournal.com/). The prompt contains story spoilers so I won't reveal it until the end. Please note this fic is a work in progress. I don't normally post my stories incomplete - let's just say this is an experiment :) Comments feed the author, and constructive criticism is welcome.
> 
> Warning for mentions of past rape and abuse.
> 
> ETA: a big, awestruck thank you to [GhostRelic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostrelic) for the amazingly beautiful cover art she made for this piece. 
> 
> ETA2: an equally big and very grateful thank you to my beta, [Ownsariver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ownsariver). Since this fic has now been thoroughly beta'd, the first six chapters are slightly different to what was first posted here. Should anyone happen to prefer the original version, that is still available over on my fic tag at [sansa-sandor](http://sansa-sandor.livejournal.com/tag/title%3Awindow-in-your-heart).
> 
> ETA 19/5/2014: I have sadly conceded defeat and abandoned this story. Please don't hate me too badly! I may come back to this fandom once the new book is out, but for now my muse has moved on, so no promises. Sorry to disappoint you all, but just wanted to let you know one way or the other (I know it sucks to be left hanging).

 

  
"Tell me again," Sansa says that afternoon when Brienne finally surfaces for a few gulps of fresh air. She has been so dreadfully seasick that Sansa has not had a chance to ask her to repeat the tale she first related on their escape to Gulltown. It had seemed too big to take in at the time, in any case, even though Brienne had told it in infuriatingly small pieces as they rode away from Petyr and his gilded cage.   
  
How did one find the right shape in one's mind to accommodate that kind of knowledge? The Hound had loomed large in the private world she kept inside her mind all these years, casting his shadow over her every action, part of that world that reminded her who she was, and why she must endure. To suddenly hear that he was no more... brushed from existence as she might brush snow from her skirts... it was impossible to make the knowledge stick. It had felt as though she both knew it, and did not know it.  _Couldn't_  know it, for she could barely believe it possible, let alone acknowledge it as fact.  
  
And yet, something about the story has teased at her brain this last day at sea. Petyr had taught her to deal in subtleties, and she is certain there is something here she didn't catch the first time.  
  
"Sandor Clegane is dead, my lady," Brienne says feebly, still pale and weak from the ordeal her stomach has put her through. "I'm sorry. I know you said you were... friends..."  
  
There is uncertainty in Brienne's voice as she speaks the final word, as though she cannot quite trust her own memory of the matter. Of course, all she knows of the younger Clegane brother is what she has heard – she cannot possibly understand. Brienne is honourable and brave and tenacious, and becoming increasingly dear to Sansa, but she lives in the light where Sansa moves among shadows.  
  
"No," Sansa says slowly, brows knit in concentration as she draws the pieces of the puzzle together. "That is not what you said before."  
  
"Forgive me," Brienne replies in confusion. "That is what the Elder Brother told me – that the Hound is dead, and that he buried him himself."  
  
"The Hound..." Sansa murmurs. She can feel it, the moment something slots into place. "The  _Hound_  is dead –  _that's_  what you said! And Sandor Clegane is at peace."  
  
"Yes, I— my lady?"  
  
Sansa leans forward, and in a rare show of emotion kisses Brienne on her scarred cheek.  _Oddly appropriate,_  she thinks giddily, before rising to tell the captain to change course for the Quiet Isle. This is truly her first day of freedom, and she will use it to set her own path.

 

*

 

The Elder Brother of the Quiet Isle does not seem entirely surprised to see them. Though it is late when the first mate rows Brienne and herself into the Isle’s little dock on the evening tide, she cannot help from pursuing the man with a buoyancy of spirit she had thought lost to her. _You must not get too excited,_ she tries to warn herself. _Nothing good ever comes of it._ And yet she cannot help herself. She is finally free, after all – perhaps it signals that her luck is changing.

 

Despite her insistence, the Elder Brother is adamant that he cannot speak to her until the morrow.

 

“I have responsibilities to attend to, my lady,” he tells her with a queer, restrained smile. “I’m sure you understand.”

 

A silent brother shows them to the women’s cottages and Sansa helps Brienne from her armour. She feels agitated, constantly looking over her shoulder, excitement rising in her stomach like bubbles, bursting with little shocks of anticipation.

 

“If he is alive...” she begins to say, “if only he is alive... he will join our cause, Brienne, I know he will.”

 

“Is he such a good man, to leave the safety and peace of this place and rejoin the war?” her lady knight asks her dubiously.

 

“No,” Sansa replies, forcing herself to keep down the hysterical laugh that wants to simmer up her throat. “No, he is not a good man at all. At least, he was not when I knew him. But I think... there was something inside him that wanted to be.” She turns to Brienne who has sat down tiredly on her narrow straw pallet. “He made me a promise that he was not able to keep. Sandor Clegane, who refused every vow of knighthood and fidelity! I have had many years to think on it, and I am certain now that he did not make it lightly. His honour will not allow him to leave it unfulfilled.”

 

“From what I have heard of the Hound, he was not known as a man of honour,” Brienne continues to protest.

 

“Conscience, then.” Sansa concedes. “And as you said, the Hound is dead.”

 

It is hard, even now, to find the correct words to explain. She knows Brienne is not happy to return here, and will be even less happy for a man such as Sandor to join them on the journey north. But even if she is right – even if he will not give up this place and whatever peace he has been able to find here for her – Sansa knows that she cannot rest easy until she has at least spoken with him. She must _try._

 

*

 

“I’m sorry my lady,” Elder Brother says the following morning as they break their fast with him in Hermit’s Hole. “Lady Brienne was correct – the man you seek is dead.”

 

“Yes, I understand, the Hound is dead,” Sansa replies patiently. “It is Sandor Clegane whom I wish to see.”

 

Elder Brother gives her a penetrating stare and Sansa looks back, unflinching and eager.

 

“My lady,” he says in a low voice, and Sansa’s heart starts to race in fear and excitement, “You are too subtle for a simple brother of the faith.”

 

Sansa holds her smile in place. “Pardons, Brother. I do not understand you.”

 

The man’s expression softens into something compassionate. It prompts the sudden urge in Sansa to tear at his face with her fingernails. “I think you do,” he says gently. “The man you seek is dead. I’m sorry.”

 

*

 

On the boat, on the way there, Sansa had turned it over and over in her mind without ever wanting to look too closely. The hope… after everything, the hope was almost unbearable. She worried at the edges but would not probe the centre, until her memories of him had become like a stone, hard yet polished smooth with wear.

 

Honesty was difficult, sometimes. More and more, these days, when there were so many truths that hurt. She knew he had not really kissed her, remembered it one day like the news of the sudden death of a friend. Still she liked to remember what had not happened, build on it and re-shape it to suit her needs, the truth and the lie laying down side-by-side without friction.

 

She knew that Brienne, good and honest woman that she was, would never understand. Would not be able to. That some lies were necessary for survival. He would – he was the first to teach her so. And though she knew he could be so terribly mean-spirited and unkind to her, what she truly remembered was the way he tried to help. In her mind, he was safety. She never could shake that impression. And when the lies had built up one on top the other, deep as the snows that had trapped her unseen in the Vale, it was always him she relied on to point her true. He had never shied away from honesty with her.

 

She has never forgotten, and never once thought that they wouldn’t meet again. She is older now, understands more, and so many words have built up in the space between years that she knows she will have to speak them to him one day, for her own sake. She never doubted she would get the opportunity.

 

*

 

But he is dead. And the Elder Brother’s words hit her with all the finality of the tolling of the bell.

 

*

 

Sansa breathes in. She breathes out.

 

Her heart has stopped beating, but somehow she continues to breathe.

 

The world slows to a stop, colours leeching to grey.

 

In her lap, her hands turn to stone claws as they grasp mercilessly at one another, forcing away the trembling in her bones.

 

She breathes in. Her throat is tight, and there is a strange ringing in her ears.

 

She breathes out.

 

She cannot move, muscles locked together like lobstered steel. She cannot move, because if she does this moment will be shattered like glass and she will be pierced through by pointed shards.

 

Someone is talking to her. A woman’s alto voice, concerned. She cannot hear, cannot focus on the words. Suddenly she is a girl of thirteen again, the husband her enemies have forced on her informing her of her mother’s and brother’s murders. He looks at her with an awful expectancy, greedy for her grief. The part of her that is still human understands that he has done her a favour by telling her in the privacy of their rooms. The part of her that is a small, frightened animal fighting for its survival knows that he wishes to use this, as all things, to his advantage.

 

 _Grief is such a violent thing,_ she thinks within the safety of the shell she has hastily erected around a body made suddenly soft and vulnerable. _It exposes the very deepest emotions for the base examination of all and sundry. Like a fist through the soft skin of the belly, dragging out the guts into the light of day where the gods never intended them to be seen. If you grieve, everyone knows why, and they feast on your pain as the crows do carrion for that is what grief is – the dead meat of what was once living, breathing love._

She would rather have been stripped bare by Joffrey a hundred times than allow Tyrion Lannister to see her grieve for her family.

 

She would rather turn to stone than allow this stranger to pick over the bones of a sorrow he could never understand.

 

She breathes in. She breathes out.

 

And she opens a door in her mind – heavy oak, studded with iron – and pushes her soft, vulnerable body through, leaving nothing but the calcified shell to face the world.

 

She breathes in.

 

And stands.

 

And smoothes down her skirts.

 

And says, “I see. Thank you for your time, Elder Brother.”

 

And turns.

 

And forcibly reminds her body how to walk, concentrating on each muscle, each joint, each step, one in front of the other, until she is facing the door for true – heavy oak, studded with iron.

 

“Leave me please, Brienne,” she murmurs, close to the limit of what her ancient heart can bear. Her companion draws in a breath, about to protest, and Sansa turns to face her, meets her eye briefly. Long enough. Brienne bows her head, ashamed of the momentary invasion. She is an honourable woman – she will give Sansa what she needs now.

 

Only once she is alone inside the cottage with the heavy door barred does she sink to the rushes and weep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The tears come not as silent, dignified raindrops, but as a bitter torrent, a violent expulsion of pain. _Again,_ she thinks, _it has happened again._ And of course this is not the same as losing her father, her mother, her brothers, but more the cumulative effect of a lifetime of loss. The last projectile flung against an already crumbling curtain wall. She has been strong for so long. Silent for so long. Now, it all rushes out of her in an ugly, screaming flood.

 

She falls asleep, exhausted and nauseous from the vicious waves of grief that clench up her stomach and contort her face, though it is more a descent into darkness than true sleep. She awakes with fresh tears on her cheeks to more darkness, skin sore and pebbled from the imprint of the rush matting, body aching and stiff.

 

 _I thought I had wept all my tears,_ she marvels distantly, but though she wipes tiredly at her swollen eyes, still they come.

 

Eventually the cottage becomes too small, too full up of her own distress. She cannot bear to be seen just now, but it is dark outside and quiet – she has spent all the day crying and sleeping. Brienne stands guard a respectful distance from the door. Sansa pulls up the hood of her cloak and closes the door carefully behind her before walking away on soft feet. If Brienne hears her, she does not follow.

 

It is a clear night, and bitingly cold. The stars are clear and beautiful in the sky, the same stars she had often gazed on from the Gates of the Moon, and she takes a moment to stand quietly and look at them.

 

 _I was just a trapped bird in a gilded cage the last time I did this,_ she thinks, and sucks in a sobbing breath that’s cold as knives. _Little bird..._

“Where are you now?” she whispers to nothing and no one, flinging the accusation into the wind. For a moment, hot ribbons of hate coil in her chest, for him, for Petyr, for her father for leaving her. She picks up a rock and casts it into a nearby tree trunk with all her might, only for it to fall short, the throw feeble and misdirected. _Just as I am._ She laughs hollowly at the symmetry.

 

And she walks – once round the island for it is not very big, and finally up the hill to its summit. There is a lichyard here, and she searches fruitlessly for his headstone for some time before she is overcome by the dreadful heart-sickness once more and sinks to her knees on the freezing ground.

 

She stares out across the black fields and roofs and the Bay of Crabs, unseeing. Her eyes ache with tiredness and her limbs feel heavy as death, and she wonders idly if she could lie down here among the gravestones and slip quietly into the arms of the Stranger.

 

*

 

“It’s just that I’ve thought of you so often,” she says softly to the glittering darkness. The night is still and empty, icy cold. The moon has set and the wind dropped, and Sansa finally feels numb. “It almost made you real. When I had no choice but to put on another’s face and speak falsities all day long, you were there in my dreams to remind me of my true name. I know I did not always chose to remember you faithfully... I know at times I re-shaped you in my mind like a clay man... I needed a true friend, and they have been in such short supply.”

 

How many times has she done this, whispered her deepest, most treacherous thoughts into the dark beneath her bed covers or over her balcony? She could close her eyes and picture a companion so clearly she could hear their voice in her mind, for she is nothing if not an expert in imagining and make believe. Like that, she could be Sansa again and speak to her mother of all the secrets of her heart, ask her father for guidance and strength. She did not dwell on the fact that easiest of all to conjure up was Sandor Clegane, his rasping voice like steel on stone, pouring his bitter truths in her ear whether she wanted to hear them or not.

 

It is barely surprising, then, when out of the night a voice replies, “Was I so kind to you in King’s Landing that you call me friend now?”

 

Sansa smiles slightly, sadly. It is the perfect night for ghosts, after all.

 

“You were not kind at all,” she tells the sky. “You were brutal and often mean. But I remember once... you tried to comfort me when I was afraid of Ser Boros. And you lied to Joffrey to save me a beating. You gave me good counsel, you... helped me survive. I am more grateful for that than you will ever know.”

 

“Words are wind,” the voice says, so full of familiar disdain that Sansa’s chest contracts painfully. “Don’t tell me you never wished for more than lies or _counsel_.”

 

“You saved me from the mob on the day of Myrcella’s leaving,” she counters. “You gave me your cloak to cover my nakedness when Joffrey had me stripped.”

 

The silence stretches thinly before her ghost speaks again. “Did you never wish I had tried to do more?”

 

“No, I barely knew what to make of you as it was. I did dream of rescue, but not by you.”

 

There is a deep, bitter chuckle. “And by such standards are my sins forgiven.”

 

“Does my honesty offend you?” she asks the wind. “Forgive me. I dreamt of you later, after Petyr had taken me away.”

 

“Another monster for your nightmares, I’ve no doubt.”

 

“Don’t,” Sansa begs, vision starting to blur once more.

 

“You never could look me in the face, girl,” the ghost continues, merciless.

 

“I was nothing but a stupid child,” she whispers. “A shallow, _stupid_ _child_. To place my trust in the hands of monsters simply because they were beautiful. I have learnt my lesson, believe me. Through pain and suffering and... _humiliation._ What I would have given for the sight of your face these last, awful years, I can think of nothing sweeter.”

 

“Your clay man, yes. Did you re-make me more comely? Some pretty knight more to your liking?”

 

“I re-made you _gentle,_ ” she hisses in reply, closing her eyes as the world blurs and the well of grief bubbles over again. “I re-made you gentle.”

 

There is a sound behind her of boots crunching on frosty earth. The air stirs beside her and she senses a presence, so strong she is tempted to open her eyes. But she does not think she could bear it, to find nothing but empty air.

 

“You can’t look at me now,” the ghost says, its own voice sounding queerly choked.

 

“Do ghosts have scars?” Sansa murmurs, hugging herself. “I hardly think it matters now you’re dead.” Quietly, for she is utterly exhausted, she begins to sob again. “I wish... I wish it was all different. Not that I could do it again, because I know I would only make the same mistakes. I just wish I could have been better. Wiser, somehow. At least a little. Sometimes I fear this loneliness will crush me-”

 

“Bloody hells,” the ghost swears. Through her aching throat, Sansa laughs – he sounds so like himself. Hands grip her wrists, trying to draw them down and away from her face but she resists. She can’t bear to look. Can’t _bear_ it.

 

“Sansa,” the voice says, a frustrated growl, barely tamed, “ _I’m not dead._ Look at me. _Look at me_.”

 

“Then why-?” she starts. Confusion reigns. There is something so familiar…

 

“I told Elder Brother to lie,” he interrupts, angry, constricted. “He asked me whether I wished myself revealed to you, and I said no. I thought you would be happier believing I had died.”

 

“How could you think that?” Sansa wails, and though her hands still cover her face she notices suddenly _his_ hands are warm. They’re _warm._

 

“Gods be true,” she breathes, and looks at him.

 

*

 

He is kneeling – as she is – on the ground amongst the gravestones, and so he does not seem quite so tall as she remembers. But he is still _big_ – broad and heavily muscled. He takes up all the space before her, and all the air from her lungs as well, and she takes in one great, gasping breath like a drowning woman desperately breaking the surface.

 

She can barely make out his face in the near-perfect dark, and so she reaches up both hands to his cheeks, running fingertips over smooth skin and twisted scars. Then, she knows. Then, she believes.

 

Her heart thuds in her chest, the first beats since the morning. 


	3. Chapter 3

“I nearly did die,” he says, as if in conciliation for... this. All of this. “I was wounded in a fight. It became tainted, so foul I was sunk in delirium when Elder Brother found me.”

 

“But you lived.” She is reeling, caught somewhere between the desire to strike him and hold onto him like a lifeline. “How could you... you said you would never lie to me.”

 

“Little bird...” he begins, an almost helpless quality to his rasping voice, on the verge of tipping over into painfully familiar bad temper, and it is too much. Overwhelmed, she moans and tries to cover her face again, but he will not let her.

 

“No,” he says fiercely, “look at me. You said this is what you wanted, so _look._ ”

 

And she does. He is little more than a dark shape limned by stars and so she must lean in closer, but it is not his features she is drawn to. _The scars were never the worst part, nor the way his mouth twitches. It’s his eyes._ Glinting in the half-light, his eyes look so different it is almost... but no, he could never be mistaken for another. His scars make sure of that. Still, Sansa can’t help but marvel.

 

His fingers still hold her wrists, hard bands of heat against her cold skin. His eyes watch hers. Not drunk or sullen with anger, but bright with life and a hope she can see is near paralysing him.

 

“Is this truly the face that graced your dreams, little bird?”

 

His voice has turned soft, softer than she has ever heard it before, and by the half-terrified look on his face she thinks he wishes he could have said it more scornfully. But he cannot, that much is clear when she reaches out carefully, as though to a wild animal, and touches her numb fingers to the hollow of his warm throat, the palm of her hand coming to rest over his heart. Through the layers of roughspun, she can feel it thundering.

 

 _Did I haunt his dreams as he haunted mine?_ The possibility occurs to her that they have both created a version of the other who has lived inside them all these years of winter. She had taken the memory of him and kept his honesty, his cynicism, his familiar face, his reassuring strength, but softened the edges of his rage, his cruelty and made him entirely loyal to her. What has he done to her in kind? She does not know if she wants the answer. _We are acting like old friends when in truth we barely know each other._ And yet, all that means right now is that they needs must learn each other for true.

 

“Yes, it is the same face,” she says. His eyes close and nostrils flare, and Sansa watches as unfamiliar emotions run across that face. She did not know him well enough before, and does not know how to read them now. But she recognises anger when she sees it, and a self-loathing her looking glass has made her well acquainted with. They are the expressions she has seen from him most often, after all. The difference now is how tightly he controls them. “I am sorry for the fear I once showed you,” she murmurs, raising her free hand to cup his scarred cheek. “I see nothing now that frightens me.”

 

His hands, that have been circling her wrists all this time, finally loosen their grip and move to cover her smaller hands, holding her in place against his heart and his scarred face.

 

“Sansa,” he rasps, the sound of her name on his lips like a prayer. “How can you say that, after what I did to you?”

 

“What did you do but try to protect me?” she asks gently, stroking the rivens of scar tissue with her thumb. His fingers tighten on hers, almost painful. “If you mean the night I saw you last...” Flashes of green in a darkened bedroom; a man reduced to a terrified boy holding a dagger to her throat because he knew no other way. She can see how ashamed he is now, and that is more than enough. “I forgive you.”

 

She waits for a moment, unsure if he will fall apart as he did that night, unsure if she has strength enough to pull herself together to comfort him again. But after a shuddering breath he whispers his thanks before gathering himself back in, and she is grateful, so grateful, that just for a few moments longer she can be the weak one.

 

*

 

The night and the cold both deepen, and yet wolves could not move Sansa from this spot amongst the gravestones in the lichyard atop the hill. As if in apology, Sandor offers his cloak for her to sit on, though he does not pull it from his shoulders first, forcing them into welcome proximity. Somehow she finds herself with her arms around Sandor Clegane’s waist, face pressed against his chest while he brings the cloak around them both and rubs halting patterns on her back. There is a strange, drunken feeling that has settled over her, from exhaustion or the taste of her own tears she cannot say, and it leaves her quite at ease in this most improper of embraces.

 

It is easier to talk this way, comfortable and close without really having to look each other in the eye. He tells her of his misadventures in the riverlands and her sister. She cries again when he tells her of his newest burns, but tears have become almost as natural as breathing this night and somehow, she can sense... it makes him feel better.

 

When her turn comes she does not want to speak of it. She imagines the clay-man-Sansa he has carried within him to be a sweet, innocent creature made in the image of the Maiden herself. Like parchment in a candle flame, that Sansa existed only fleetingly and in her place is left mere ashes.

 

But she also senses that if she does not speak now, with the wounds to her soul still so raw, she may never do it. The wounds will heal up to be ragged scar tissue, and the ugly truths will stay trapped beneath forever. _This is what I wanted, after all. This is why I kept his memory tight in my heart, and took it out at night and talked to it as though we were the best of friends._ It is more than a little hard to believe that any of this is really happening, but harder still to find the words.

 

She tells him anyway. Not quite everything, but enough. By the time she is done he is holding her so tightly it feels as though he is trying to crush her inside of him. She imagines herself nestled beneath his rib cage, protected, and feels better.

 

The muscles in his arms and chest are twitching when he rasps, “I never thought I could want a man dead more than Gregor.”

 

Sansa closes her eyes and listens to his heartbeat.

 

“I feel hollow from so many lies, I no longer know myself,” she says eventually, “but I do not think I can fill myself back up with men’s lives. Killing Petyr would not bring back the years I spent as his captive. He wanted to make me in his image, but I won’t. There are other ways to bring him down.”

 

Sandor laughs softly, sardonic, a deep rumble in his chest that she both hears and feels – a sensation she is rapidly coming to like very much.

 

“You sound like Elder Brother,” he says.

 

“Good,” she replies. His eyes told the story long before he shared it with her in words – he is not quite the same man who left her behind, and she yet clings to him with a ferocity that should frighten her. She has never needed someone this much, this abruptly, and she refuses to let him slide back down that dark path of revenge that defined him in such harsh lines before.

 

She wonders briefly what it is that defines him now. She hopes there will be more than enough time to find it out.

 

*

 

Finally, as the sky begins to lighten in the east, Sandor lifts her leaden body in his arms and slowly makes his way back down the hill. He is limping slightly, but she comforts herself with the thought that he is so strong her added weight must make little difference.

 

She closes her eyes and listens to his heart, the rustle of his clothing, his uneven footsteps and his steady breath. _It is like a dream_ , she thinks, and for a moment is gripped by terror that she will wake to find it so. But no. It has been several years since her dreams of him have ended in anything so innocent as comfort. She smiles to herself as she thinks on some of the activities her unconscious mind has conjured up recently. Would he be shocked to know these things? Before, she might have thought him more likely to laugh at her tender fantasies. Now... now she feels there is a chance of something previously unexpected. If she wants it, that is.

 

These thoughts play through her mind as Sandor talks over her head to a surprised Brienne. The rules of the Quiet Isle prohibit men from entering the women’s cottages, but she supposes Sandor Clegane has never much been one for following rules. He closes the door behind him with his foot and lays her gently down on her straw pallet.

 

She opens her eyes just as he brushes a strand of hair from her brow. His expression, for a moment unguarded, sets butterflies flitting in her stomach.

 

Sensing his hesitation, she reaches out to wind her fingers firmly in his tunic. “Don’t go.”

 

For once, he says nothing, but gets up to push Brienne’s pallet closer before barring the door.

 

She has never slept with a man before – just slept, lying close. He is warmth along her back and breath stirring her hair. He is a hand placed awkwardly at her waist before falling off in sleep and tucking tightly round her belly. He is a leg hooked securely over hers, a soft rumbling snore. As he plummets precipitously into sleep as only fighting men seem able, he draws her closer and closer. Resisting sleep, Sansa tries to commit these moments to memory – all the feelings, all the sounds, every scrap of skin that touches his skin. There is so much, but it is a contented task and before long she too falls asleep, smiling.


	4. Chapter 4

She awakes some hours later – mid-morning by the slant of the dusty light coming through the shutters. For a moment she does not want to move. The queer drunken feeling of the night before has worn away and left her with a brittle clear-headedness that makes her stomach flip over in anxiety. In the light of day, she now feels quite unprepared to come face to face with Sandor Clegane.

 

She quickly realises that he is no longer abed, however, unsure whether she feels relief or disappointment. _A little of both_ , she realises to her surprise. There is no time to really think on it, though, as a voice from behind her rasps, “You’re awake.”

 

Sansa rolls onto her back and rubs her gritty eyes before looking around. He is sitting in the room’s single chair pulling on his boots, while she lays sprawled across both sleeping pallets, draped warmly in his cloak. The fire has gone out and the small cottage is cold enough for Sansa’s breath to puff in front of her face, but the sound of his voice makes her feel warm deep in the pit of her stomach.

 

This is the first time she has seen him fully. Last night was dark and moonless and her mind had been clouded by emotion, but now he sits in daylight and she is free to consider him without impediment.

 

His black hair is a little shorter than she remembers it – neater and cleaner too. It hangs over his face as he leans forward to deal with his boots, but she can see with a little pang that he still wears it brushed to the side to cover his burns. His face is somehow less gaunt, cheeks not so hollow as she remembers, _or perhaps it is merely that winter has made hollow faces the norm._ But then, Brienne had told her of the supplies stored on this island, untouched by the war. _Perhaps there is more room in his belly for food if he does not fill it with so much wine._ That is more of a hope than anything, but if she breathes in she can still catch his scent from last night – leather and wind and a touch of horse, but no wine.

 

He looks up, then, catching her staring, but instead of embarrassment Sansa instead feels transfixed. As she had realised last night, his eyes no longer hold the terrifying iron-hard anger that had once scared her so, but his gaze is still an intense dark grey that Sansa finds quite... remarkable.

 

He clears his throat, expression hard to read, and she realises that not only has she been staring at him for only the Gods know how long, but she has also failed to answer him. She cannot think of anything to say, her throat quite dry.

 

“Yes, I’m awake,” she replies stupidly. Then, “Did you sleep well, my lord?”

 

He gives her a look that is perhaps intended to be disdainful, though she senses vulnerability behind it, “I’m no lord, girl, as you well know. You called me Sandor last night, call me the same this morning.”

 

Feeling awkward, Sansa concentrates on sitting up, eyes falling to her lap. “Yes of course. My pardons, Sandor.” Then she realises that she is allowing herself to fall back into feeling the uncomfortable little girl with him, and forces herself to stop it. “And you called me Sansa, not girl,” she says, looking back up at him. “It _is_ my name. That or... or little bird. I don’t mind that.”

 

To her annoyance, she feels herself blushing deeply, but she refuses to avert her eyes. There is something more than a little guarded about Sandor this morning too, and that gives her confidence, though at her words his face relaxes minutely. Without looking away, he beckons for her to come closer. Like a loadstone seeking north, she rises to her knees before him. He just looks at her for a long moment that seems to suck her in like a whirlpool. Then he takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger, a gentle, almost tentative echo of the way he used to snatch at her, before saying in his deep, rasping voice, “Little bird.”

 

Sansa shivers down to her bones. Her skin rises into gooseflesh prickling beneath her clothes, and she is suddenly aware how this includes her nipples tightening into two hard points. He leans closer and for a moment she thinks he means to kiss her. He isn’t holding her in any other way, but somehow he is too strong to fight. This time, she doesn’t close her eyes. She won’t make that mistake again.

 

Nothing happens. Then, eventually, he stands.

 

“Elder Brother will want to speak with me for breaking his rules,” he says, his expression hard to read. “But then I’ll gather my things and you and me and that bloody great wench of yours can be on our way.”

 

Sansa’s breath catches in her throat. “So you’ll come north with us?”

 

“Yes,” he replies. He turns and walks to the door, but stops with his hand on the latch. “And then you’ll tell me about those dreams you had of me in the Vale.”

 

Sansa looks at him in shock. He grins in return, and she is seared through by the unfamiliar expression. But as he ducks under the lintel on his way out, Sansa finds that she too is smiling.

 

*

 

It is somehow hard to let him leave, though. It is almost as though they are two hands around which a skein of wool has been wound, held close and wishing to be ever closer. When he leaves the cottage, she feels as though their skein has been stretched unbearably tight, and she finds she must fight off the irrational urge to run after him merely to stand close and feel his presence beside her.

 

 _Is this love?_ She has no basis for comparison. But she is kneeling on the bed that they shared, sleeping in each other’s embrace, and now she is smiling foolishly at the closed door, her chest on fire with tenderness. _I wonder._

 

*

 

“That was him?” Brienne asks a few minutes later as they walk together to the bathhouse.

 

Sansa smiles deeply to herself before answering, “Yes, that was him. Did he not introduce himself this morning? I know you spoke when he brought me back.”

 

“He did. I only...” she trails off and catches Sansa’s eye, sees her secretive smile. “He is not as I expected.”

 

“Nor I,” Sansa confirms, and laughs. “Alive, for one!”

 

Brienne is unmoved by Sansa’s happiness, her expression wavering on pained. “You were... safe with him? Alone?”

 

“Would you have let him stay with me if you thought otherwise?”

 

They look at each other out of the corners of their eyes, the each giving subtle challenge to the other. It is Brienne who yields first.

 

“No, my lady,” she says simply.

 

Sansa breaks out into a huge smile again. “He is coming north with us. As I wished.”

 

Brienne nods and says nothing more, but if she is unhappy with this arrangement she keep her own counsel.

 

*

 

Brienne stands guard at the door to the empty bathhouse while Sansa goes in alone. She has never bathed anywhere except her own tub, even in Winterfell where they had hot pools in the godswood. To expose herself in such a large room without even a screen seems illicit. A little exciting, too.

 

She stands naked as her nameday at the top of the steps leading down to the bath, staring into her own imagination, absently touching the skin of her neck and collarbone with delicate fingers. Her skin feels terribly sensitive in a way that is both pleasant and raw; new born. _For a moment, last night, I wanted to die up there in that lichyard. Perhaps I did, and am grown anew from the corpse._

 

She has often thought, over the years, that her skin had turned from porcelain to ivory to steel. But there are cracks in her shell, so many cracks, held together by nothing more than force of will, and that will had been broken last night. _I let Sandor see what was underneath._ Though she feels exposed, she does not feel weakened.

 

She stands now, naked in the large, hot room, and imagines his eyes on her. He always was good at finding the shadows in King’s Landing, often seeming to step right out of the darkness. _That is exactly what he did last night._ And so she imagines him hidden away in some dark corner of this windowless room, obscured by steam, watching her bare body with his dark, intense gaze….

 

As she slides herself into the warm water, it feels like a caress on her sensitised skin. Slipping a hand between her legs she feels that she is wet. She tips her head back until it rests against the ledge and pushes a finger into her opening, before withdrawing and teasing herself with soft strokes and delicious, slow circles on her sensitive nub. Her whole body seems to be singing in time with her caresses, but she stops before it can reach a crescendo.

 

She has never felt this way before; she is content for now to allow the feeling to linger. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of past abuse.
> 
> Comments feed the author :)

Things move apace after that. The Elder Brother, upon hearing Sandor’s intention to leave, grants them a portion of the Isle’s supplies. He has been generous, and Sansa wonders if it is a reflection of his political affiliations, or his affection for Sandor that has prompted it. Perhaps a little of both.

 

 _He_ says that it is merely the dictates of his faith, but Sansa is not so naïve to believe such pleasant falsehoods any longer.

 

She stands on the dock for a little while, watching as the two small rowboats shuttle back and forth with the barrels of flour and wine, the cages of poultry. Sandor joins her before too long, her heart swooping precipitously at the sound of his approach.

 

He is clad in his old armour, plain soot grey and yet impressive for the sheer size of the man within. His mail shirt clinks softly as he comes to stand beside her, expression hard to read.

 

“Are you sorry to be leaving?” Sansa asks quietly, made unsure by his silence. She had told Brienne she felt certain he would join her cause out of obligation, and yet, now faced with him, she is not sure if that is sufficient any longer.

 

“No,” he says without hesitation. “Elder Brother has done well by me – better than I deserved – but even he knows I’m not cut out for prayer.” He looks down at her, the same grey intensity that made her body warm this morning. “My fate is bound to yours, little bird. He knows that, too.”

 

Sansa does not know what to say. Brienne has shown her great loyalty, but this is something other. Something beyond. She would like to take his hand, kiss his knuckles in gratitude – it has been so long since she knew what it felt like to trust. But she cannot make such a display out here on the dock for anyone to see, and so she must settle for the brush of her hand against his, returning his gaze in a solemn nod.

 

“Thank you,” she says, utterly heartfelt.

 

He stares at her a moment longer before looking away, the corner of his mouth twitching into a fleeting grin.

 

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says in a low voice, eyes on the horizon, and Sansa feels shot through with warmth again, hearing the promise in his words. Promise, or threat. She cannot say she minds, either way.

 

*

 

It is afternoon by the time supplies and people are loaded aboard, and later still before the tide is right for them to sail out to open water. Space is tight on their small boat, Sansa and Brienne having to share since Sandor has been given Brienne’s cabin. At dinner, Sansa sits beside her lady knight but spends most of the meal merely gazing at Sandor. She desperately wants to speak to him, but not of anything she would care for the sailors to overhear.

 

Instead, she leans close to Brienne and whispers, “I hope you will not think the worse of me if I do not sleep in our cabin tonight.”

 

Brienne pulls back to look her in the eye, a searching gaze, before she nods minutely. “I understand,” she replies softly, and by the sadness in her big, blue eyes, Sansa knows that she does.

 

*

 

Sandor merely huffs in amusement when she follows him, and not Brienne, to his door.

 

“Don’t let the sailors see you, little bird,” he rasps as he pushes the door closed behind her. “You’ll be the talk of every port these water rats set anchor in.”

 

Sansa warms once more at the implication behind his words, but it is quite a pleasant sensation, and she meets his eyes levelly as he uncorks a wineskin with his teeth.

 

His cabin is relatively spacious, given the sleeping quarters of the sailors, but there is no furniture beyond his chest and the too-small birth, and the ceiling is too low for him to stand up straight. There is nothing to be done about that except to sit with their backs against the bulkhead partitions, passing the wineskin back and forth between them.

 

 _This is how friendships are made,_ Sansa thinks. She has seen Petyr do it often enough, albeit in more sophisticated ways: drink and talk and find common ground. She would never have thought, upon first meeting the Hound, that she could ever have any common ground with such a man. Now, it is barely a surprise how much of it there is.

 

The wine is sharp and heavy on her tongue, the boat rocking them gently into each other and away again. She looks at him, and sees a stranger and a friend all at once, startled for a moment at the duality.

 

“How many different people do you think one person can be?” she wonders aloud.

 

He takes the wineskin from her hands with a low chuckle at her expense before answering, “Fanciful little bird.”

 

Sansa smiles a bit. “I imagine you are thinking how little has changed,” she replies, “and perhaps it is true that some aspects of oneself remain constant. Yet, neither of us is the same as the last time we met.”

 

He goes silent for a long time at that, and Sansa takes the wineskin back again, sipping at it as she waits him out.

 

“You’re not the same girl who left Winterfell,” he says eventually. “I didn’t know how anyone could be so innocent. I wanted to rip the scales from your eyes. But even on the night I left you, after everything they did to you... you never lost your sweetness. I thought it was weakness. I thought it would make me weak. I didn’t understand.”

 

He looks uncomfortable and angry, and Sansa reaches out to place her hand on his forearm. “I wish you had succeeded,” she says honestly. “The things I have seen since then...” she trails off, unwilling to follow that path to its conclusion just now. He looks down at her hand, then up at her face, frowning. Sansa is reminded that he, too, has carried his clay memory of her all these years. _Has he found me a disappointment?_ She shakes the thought off. “But that is not quite what I meant,” she continues. “People change as time passes, that is a given, but now that I am free to be Sansa Stark once more, I find that there is somehow more than one of me.”

 

They look at each other for the length of several heartbeats. Sansa had trained herself long ago to look into men’s eyes, a directness more becoming of a bastard girl than the lady her septa had brought her up to be. She has found it informative, intrusive, revealing... but never so intimate.

 

“You’ve grown a thick hide, that’s true enough,” he finally says. “But if it’s helped you survive then I’ve no complaint. Just...” he reaches up to touch her jaw lightly with callused fingers, “don’t do that with me.”

 

Sansa turns her face into his palm and remembers how exposed she had felt after last night; how little she had minded. She has been holding her cracked and battered shell together by herself all these years, and though Sandor has seen what lies beneath, if anything she feels that he can be the force that binds the cracks together. He can strengthen her. If she lets him. She thinks she wants to let him.

 

“I will try not to,” she whispers, “but my courtesy, my thick hide, is the only armour I have. My skin has turned to steel. You must help me remove my armour when we are alone, just as you and Brienne helped each other earlier.”

 

Sandor strokes his thumb along the line of her cheekbone. “Aye, little bird, I’ll be your squire if that’s what you want of me.”

 

“It is,” she says, and leans forward, and kisses him gently on his scarred cheek. “Thank you.”

 

She hovers for a moment by his cheek, wondering how it would feel to kiss him for true, but that is not what she wants right now. Instead, she wraps her arms around his chest, so broad that her hands don’t meet, and rests her head on his shoulder. After half a heartbeat, she feels his arm come around her. And she sleeps.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of past rape and abuse.
> 
> Concrit is welcome.

This time when Sansa wakes, he is still beside her. She had fallen asleep propped upright against his solid chest, but at some point in the night he has dragged the bedding from his birth, straw mattress and rough blankets and all, and made a bed for them on the floor. Still half in sleep, she is nonetheless pleased that he came back to share it with her. And now he lies all along her back, one big hand warm across her belly and holding her tightly to him.

 

It feels wonderful, but now that she is stirring, she feels how hard the floor still is beneath the makeshift mattress, how her shoulder aches. Sleepily, she stretches out her limbs before twisting round in his embrace. It does not escape her notice that his manhood has hardened and now presses against her hip as she twists onto her back and then her other side.

 

Now lying face to face with her bed mate, Sansa tries to keep a little gap between their bodies, so as not to inflame him further, but Sandor, still asleep, drags her closer with a grunt until she is flush up against him, face buried in his chest. His manhood presses hard against her belly, and the heat of yesterday’s new sensation builds in her once again and pools low and compelling. Not only that, however – she does not know how he expects her to breathe like this! Trying not to shake him with her silent laughter at her predicament, Sansa gently presses her hands against his chest, attempting to pry herself loose.

 

“You choose to sleep with a man, you should be prepared for the consequences,” Sandor’s deep voice rumbles above her head. She feels the vibration through his chest before he loosens his grip and lets her back away. She does not go too far, pleased by the brief look of surprise he gives her. _He thought I would leave him completely,_ she realises, and smiles at him in reassurance, though she too is a little surprised that he released her at all. She waits for a moment, to see if he will act on his arousal after all. When he does nothing but yawn and rub the grit from his eyes, Sansa is unsure if her own reaction is disappointment or relief.

 

“Good morning,” she says. It is surprisingly warm in the cabin, given there is no fire, but Sansa draws their blanket closer around her shoulders, trying to show him she does not want to get up yet.

 

“Good morning,” he replies, something faintly mocking in his tone, before he reaches out to take a strand of her hair that has fallen over her shoulder between his finger and thumb, stroking the length of it before tucking it behind her ear. The light tug as he does it feels… very agreeable.

 

“Thank you for letting me stay with you,” she says, then cannot help the small grin that pulls at the corner of her mouth, “despite the consequences.”

 

He snorts in surprise, rubbing a hand down his face as he rolls onto his back. “This is a fine time to turn your charm on me, little bird.”

 

Sansa props herself up on her elbow so that she may still look at his face. A smart reply has occurred to her, and she attempts to divine from his expression how it would be received. _Yes, I can see you have already had enough of my charms for one morning._ She tests the retort out in her head. Does she sound too much like Randa? Or worse, Cersei? She does not want him to think her bawdy. _Though I have spent the last two nights abed with him._ The hypocrisy makes her laugh again, and Sandor frowns at the ceiling.

 

“Something funny?”

 

“No,” she says, the laughter settling down into a smile. “No, I am just happy. It has been a somewhat foreign emotion these last few years.” She reaches out almost absently and runs her forefinger along his profile, forehead to chin. His sharp, indrawn breath startles her, but she does not rescind the touch, watching him a moment in curiosity before asking, “What do you think of me staying here with you, Sandor?”

 

She still isn’t sure whether she wants to know how much the real Sansa Stark differs from his clay-man-Sansa. Yet now she has asked, she feels a strange desperation for his answer. Does he think her brash and brazen? Alayne could be thus, at times. Or is she sad, pathetic little Sansa in his eyes, so desperate for his protection she will throw caution to the wind? She does not feel like either of those people in his company, but she realises she would very much like him to tell her who he sees.

 

He turns to look at her, her finger sliding from his chin to the blanket between them. “I’m yours to command,” he replies, his eyes serious now, intent. “I’ll do whatever it is you want of me. Be to you whatever it is you want of me.”

 

It is not the answer she expected. It is not really an answer at all. At least, not to the question she thought she had asked.

 

“Should you not have your sword at hand if you mean to pledge it to me?” she asks lightly, but the atmosphere in the room has gone heavy, and her words fall flat.

 

“Not just my sword,” he replies, serious.

 

Sansa’s chest constricts. “Why?” she whispers. “You have no obligation to me, I told you that.”

 

“I never said I agreed with you, Sansa.” His voice is low and sounds rougher than usual. His grey eyes glitter at her, almost angrily. Or perhaps that is merely the emotion she is most used to seeing in them. She feels suddenly small in the face of his unbounded loyalty. She remembers thinking, that night in the lichyard, how queer it felt to need someone so much, so abruptly. The same feeling coalesces around her heart now. It is frightening and thrilling all at once, the same feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff and leaning forwards to look down.

 

And then there is also the flash of power, that he so clearly desires her but will not act on it without her say so. That he will put himself in her hands entirely. It occurs to Sansa that he has bared himself to her more completely than if he laid here by her side as naked as his nameday. She could do anything with that power. She has seen it done before.

 

 _Petyr wanted to make me in his image, but I won’t._ Her own words ring in her ears. Her skin prickles in disgust at the direction in which her thoughts have turned.

 

“What if this is what I need of you?” she asks quietly. “Only this, and nothing more?”

 

For a moment, something raw like hurt flashes in his eyes, before Sandor lifts a hand and strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers, surprisingly gentle, given what he says next. “Then you’ll wake every morning to my hard cock up against your arse, little bird, nothing I can do about that. But I’ll keep it in my breeches, you have my word.”

 

Sansa quickly covers her mouth with her hand in an attempt to stifle a shocked giggle. This should be a solemn moment, despite his vulgar words. Then she sees that he is grinning at her, and realises her reaction was exactly as he intended.

 

“You are a very wicked man,” she laughs, poking him hard in the arm.

 

“Aye, you’ve said before. Though I’m still not afraid of the gods sending me down to some terrible hell.”

 

Sansa sobers a little at that. He is referring to the night before Lord Stannis attacked King’s Landing, of course. It reminds her sharply of just how long they have known each other, how many things they have shared. “But do you know the best way to avoid such a fate?”

 

He gives her a scornful look in reply. “You know I don’t believe in the gods.”

 

“Either way, it is better to be safe than sorry,” she replies. “And besides, what I am going to recommend to you suits my own purposes as well: with a past such as yours, Sandor, the best way to avoid being sent to the deepest of the seven hells is to live a long and healthy life.”

 

He roars in laughter, and Sansa feels her heart swell at the simple and uncensored expression of mirth on his face. She remembers that night, on the battlements of Maegor’s, he told her: _There are no true knights, no more than there are gods._ Sansa no longer believes in her mother’s seven gods either, but perhaps she will get her true knight after all.

 

“Sandor,” she says suddenly, realising now what it is that she wants of him. “You said you were mine to command…”

 

“I did,” he agrees, still chuckling over her jape.

Of all the strange and intimate moments that have passed between them since waking, it is only now that Sansa blushes pink, attempting to find the right words to ask for what it is she wants. She feels desire for him, but there is also fear – despite his loyalty, despite the trust she has in him, the thought of willingly giving everything she is over to him is frightening. She does not feel ready. But that does not meant she doesn’t _want._

 

“I command…” she licks her lips and lowers her eyes. “I would look on you.”

 

There is a pause in the room. Then Sandor sits up and reaches over to lift her chin.

 

“Only if you look at me and say it,” he rasps.

 

Sansa swallows before she, too, sits up. “I would look on you,” she repeats, “without… without clothes.”

 

She has never seen a man unclothed in daylight before. After the first time, Petyr always took her from behind, the easier to ignore her pain and fear, and imagine himself with Lady Catelyn. Sansa does not fear Sandor, not any more, but still she needs to _see._

 

To her relief, Sandor says nothing in retort, but after half a heartbeat’s hesitation, pulls his tunic over his head in one fluid motion. When he reaches for the laces of his breeches, Sansa stops him – this is enough.

 

“Will you… will you lie down again?” she asks tentatively. He is so big, seeing him at her eye level is a little daunting. He does, again without protest or comment, bending his arms so that his hands are tucked behind his head as he watches her. “May I touch you?” she murmurs. Her voice sounds trembly to her own ears. She reminds herself that she trusts him.

 

“Yes,” he replies simply. He looks relaxed, at his ease, except for his eyes, which burn into her, and the bulge in the front of his breeches, now clearly visible where before it was only felt.

 

That gives her pause. How much provocation might a man be able to take before losing his self-control? Petyr had often complained that she made him lose his head around her, after all.

 

“Sansa, look at me.”

 

She jumps at the familiar rasping voice, realising she had drifted away for a moment.

 

“I gave you my word,” Sandor says when she meets his eyes. Sansa remembers how he refused to take knight’s vows, or the oaths of the kingsguard. _Yet he has sworn himself to me. I should not take that lightly._  

 

She nods a little jerkily, before carefully lowering one clammy hand to the centre of his belly. His skin is warm, and surprisingly smooth between scars. She traces the shape of the hard ridges of muscle lightly with her fingers before putting her other hand on him as well. His breathing has quickened, but a glance at his face confirms that she may continue.

 

Getting to her knees, she brushes both hands further up his body, to the hard, flat planes of his chest and from there she lets her fingers wander everywhere: the softer hair under his arms, the smooth, hard muscles of his arms and shoulders, the chords of his neck. Touching him is strangely reassuring, the dark, coarse hair and scars and smooth skin, and though there is arousal too, it is somewhat distant, a candle down the corridor.

 

 _His_ arousal does not abate, his skin raising into gooseflesh in a trail after her fingers, lips parted, but he is true to his word, and does not touch her in return. Even when she brushes her fingertips over each of his small nipples, watching them draw tight, hearing the hitch in his throat. Even when she follows the line of hair leading down from his chest to his navel, fingering the inch or so of hair visible below before it disappears into his breeches. Where his manhood is; engorged because of her.

 

Something blooms deep within her, an aching heat. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she leans over him, making a curtain either side of his face with her hair. It feels intimate and she likes that. His eyes glint at her, grey and intent, full of the same, echoing heat, and she wonders how close she would need to come to make him break his word and kiss her; grab her arms and hold her down and take his pleasure in her. Instead of revulsion, as she had feared, the thought brings sudden hot waves of desire.

 

She lowers her face almost until their noses touch. He does not look away from her even as she feels his whole body tense, a steady gaze, hot with his need but honest, too. Sansa sees then all that she needs to see, the steely resolve in the face of how deeply he wants her. He has already proven himself to her: this is unnecessary, and unfair. She touches the tip of his nose gently with her own before drawing back and lifting her hands from his body.

 

For a moment, they merely look at one another.

 

“You should leave, now, little bird,” he rasps, lowering a hand to begin unhurriedly loosening the laces of his breeches. “Unless you intend to watch this as well.”

 

Sansa wants to say yes. She wants to stay and see him fully naked, wants to watch a man take his pleasure and feel no fear from it. But she is damp between her legs and burning with want, and she does not trust herself merely to watch; she is not yet ready for the consequences.

 

She cannot just leave him, though.

 

“Think of me,” she tells him before rising and going to the door.

 

When she turns to look back at him, lying with one hand behind his head and the other resting over the bulge in his breeches, she hesitates. The heart skein tightens painfully and for a moment she does not think she can leave.

 

“Always,” he rasps, smirking a little too much to be truly earnest, and Sansa finds herself smiling back. It is enough to slacken the hold, and she slips carefully through the door, back across the narrow corridor to the cabin she should have shared with Brienne.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... thank you for your patience everyone. At eight months, I think I've just broken some kind of record for longest gap between updates! In the meantime, GhostRelic made me the most beautiful cover art, now posted in [Chapter 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/538008/chapters/955438) \- please go check it out and swoon in admiration :)
> 
> This fic has now been fully beta'd by the irreplaceable Ownsariver, so there are a number of small changes to the version that was first posted here. In the event that anyone prefers the original, I have left it posted on my [fic tag over on sansa_sandor](http://sansa-sandor.livejournal.com/tag/title%3Awindow-in-your-heart).
> 
> Warning for mentions of rape and past abuse. If you would prefer more info before reading, please feel free to contact me.
> 
> Concrit is welcome.

Sansa bathes with a wash cloth and changes her clothes before going to the galley to break her fast. Though she takes her time, Sandor does not appear, and she accompanies Brienne to the deck, the other woman already looking pale with seasickness. It’s a beautiful winter’s day, crisp and cold, and the whipping of the wind in her face feels wonderful to Sansa. _Everything_ feels wonderful. She is free, she has friends, she has trust. Her good fortune is dizzying.

 

“Brienne,” she says, turning to her companion as they stand at the prow watching the horizon, “have you ever been afraid of losing something good in your life?”

 

“What do you mean, my lady?” Brienne asks cautiously.

 

Sansa thinks carefully. _What do I mean?_ “Only that, in the past, I have always been played false by the things that brought me joy. Going south, being betrothed to Joffrey, escaping King’s Landing. My heart is finally filled with happiness once more…” she trails off, unable to find the words to express how she feels. She is not afraid, and that alone should scare her.

 

“In my experience,” Brienne begins haltingly. “In my experience, true happiness is a fleeting thing. This is a hard world, especially now with the war and winter. If such joy enters your life… I would have made the most of every moment.”

 

Sansa feels moved in a way she had not been when Brienne first told her of Ser Jaime’s uncertain fate. She might have thought her heart too full up of her own emotions to extend to her companion, but it seems she is somehow now more capable of empathy. It is Sandor’s doing, and she laughs a little to herself at the thought of his reaction should she ever tell him so.

 

“You are right,” Sansa tells her, “and I am sure Ser Jaime will be pleased to hear you say so when we meet him at White Harbour.”

 

Whether he will be there is no certain thing, but Sansa knows the crushing weight of hope. Brienne returns a weak smile to her, though Sansa can see she does not wish to speak of it.

 

“You have found happiness, then, with Sandor Clegane?” she asks. “He makes you happy?”

 

“Yes,” Sansa replies softly.

 

“My heart is glad for you, Lady Sansa.”

 

There the conversation pauses, and they watch a cormorant diving for his meal. The choppy sea sparkles like sapphires, and Sansa wonders if Brienne is thinking of her home. She tries to work up her courage to ask her what she really wishes to know. Randa had been a font of information, but Sansa does not know how much was true and how much said merely to shock poor innocent Alayne. It seems important that she find out now, and Brienne is more like she is, circumspect, courteous _, proper._

 

“I needs must ask a personal question, if you will permit it,” she murmurs eventually. There are no sailors about just now, they are safe to talk.

 

“You may ask, my lady,” Brienne replies, curious but unwilling to commit herself.

 

“Have you ever lain with a man?”

 

She is surprised to feel herself blushing. She had half thought herself numbed to such outrageous talk. Brienne’s own tanned skin is equally flushed. She seems to struggle with herself for a moment before she looks over at Sansa, something like a challenge in her eyes.

 

“Yes,” she says, as though waiting for Sansa to disapprove. “I am no maid.”

 

“Neither am I,” Sansa reminds her quietly, and the bullishness in her lady knight’s countenance recedes.

 

“Pardons, my lady, I had forgotten,” she says after a moment. She watches Sansa with a careful expression, sensing there is more.

 

“Can you tell me, is it… does it ever… feel nice?”

 

A fleeting smile graces Brienne’s wide mouth. “Yes, it does.” She scrutinises Sansa for a moment. “Have you ever…? By yourself, I mean…”

 

She is colouring deeply now, but clearly determined to proceed, if Sansa wills it.

 

Taking pity, Sansa does not wait for her to finish. “Yes, I have, but I know that is different to… what happens with a man.”

 

Brienne turns away from her, back towards the sea and the horizon. “It does not have to be,” she says. “Where there is trust and… respect, then it can be just as pleasant. Perhaps even more so.”

 

Of all the things Sansa has ever heard of Jaime Lannister, trustworthy and respectful are not two of them. Yet Brienne had not believed in Sandor’s worth at first, and she is quite certain that once Petyr is done with her reputation most of Westeros will think her no more than a dim-witted whore. Brienne is not lying to her, she knows it.

 

“Thank you, Brienne,” she says, laying her hand on the other woman’s arm.

 

Brienne considers the contact for a moment. “You were so cold when I brought you down from the Vale,” she says quietly, wonderingly. “I do not mean that as an insult. I was worried that… but you are different, I see it now. It gives me hope.”

 

Of their own accord, Sansa’s fingers tighten their grip. “There is always hope,” she says, “if only we can see our way to it.”

 

Part of her must have always felt this, or else she would have thrown herself out of a tower window long before now. And that part of her is now inextricably bound up with Sandor Clegane. She cannot say she is sorry for it.

 

*

 

“I want… I wish to see you again,” she tells Sandor that evening, safely locked away in his cabin and emboldened by wine and Brienne’s words. They have but one candle and it is burning low, but she is determined to have what she wants before the light is gone. It has been such a long time since any decisions have been her own, the ability now to give orders and be obeyed is heady and pleasant; the company even more so.

 

“You’re seeing me now, little bird,” comes the amused response, his eyes shining with dark mirth and anticipation. Sansa reaches for his wineskin, to free his hands. Their fingers connect for a moment, and Sansa’s stomach shivers.

 

“Without clothes,” she murmurs, remembering to look at him as she says it this time.

 

He makes to get up and move over to their pallet, but Sansa stays him. Curled up at his side against the bulkhead, she is warm and comfortable, and does not wish to go anywhere.

 

“Stay here,” she tells him. Then adds, “I will help.” She reaches up to loosen the laces at the neck of his tunic, her fingertips brushing more warm skin. He is watching her intently, and when she trails her hand down to the hem, the good corner of his mouth flickers into a grin.

 

“I didn’t know little birds were so bold,” he rasps but raises his arms when Sansa gives him an impatient look, letting her peel the tunic from his torso.

 

His skin blazes heat, and despite the attention she had given him that morning, she realises there are still little details she missed. Fine scars beneath the hair on his chest, the masculine interlocking of muscles. Sitting at his side as she is, she can also see a tantalising hint of his back and the same pattern of scars and beautiful muscle. She traces some of these lines now with slow, curious fingertips, pleased by the small hitches to his breathing. He is a big man, as strong as he ever was, yet she can undo him like this. The thought draws her irresistibly closer.

 

She thinks to kiss the smooth, hairless skin at the place where shoulder meets neck, and is giddy with the fact that nothing is stopping her. That she may do this, and whatever else she likes – or nothing at all – and he won’t throw her down and use her until she is raw and sobbing. The coarse black hair on his chest tickles her chin, and she lowers her lips there to feel the contrast.

 

“You make me want to be bolder,” she says into his skin, and it is the truth. It is still confounding, _why_ she wants him as much as she does, but with him she knows she never wants to be a timid child. She wants to be whole – the woman grown her years should have made of her.

 

“Fuck,” he breathes, “don’t let me stop you.”

 

One hand is tucked comfortably around his upper arm, feeling the hard muscle bunch and relax at the touch of her lips. Her other hand finds its way to his belly, and though he is sitting up there is nothing but taut skin over hard muscle and tantalising black hair. Petyr had not been a fat man, but neither was he skilled in any physical art. When he sat, his stomach had folded into soft, pale rolls. Sandor’s body tells of his strength, and his survival. She feels along the ragged edge of an old scar on his ribs as she presses another kiss to his broad pectoral muscle, and thinks it an honest thing, that he cannot hide the evidence of his victories and losses.

 

“Sansa,” Sandor rumbles, and with her lips pressed to his chest she can feel the low vibration of his voice in an entirely new way.

 

“Yes?” Her words ghost across his skin, raising goose-flesh.

 

“If you don’t want my cock to turn black and fall off from lack of blood supply, I really need to loosen my breeches.”

 

She smiles against his skin, breathing him in a moment before letting her hand trail down from his belly to the waistline of his breeches. She has been touching him all evening, unable to help it and unwilling to try. He is incredibly responsive to even the smallest touch and she cannot get enough of it. He groans out loud at the fumbling of her fingers at his laces. Pressing one last kiss to his chest, she sits back a little and unlaces him right down the front, much farther than is necessary. His eyes have closed and his fists lay bunched at his sides.

 

“Will you take them off?” she asks softly. “I would see the whole of you tonight.”

 

He glances at her. “Sure you’re up to it, girl?” he asks roughly. “I’m hard as hell. Can’t say I’m like to deal with it well if you faint in my lap.”

 

His directness is shocking, and it reminds her of the man she used to know in King’s Landing. _So the Hound is still in there, somewhere. At least a little._ She adds it to the picture she carries of him in her mind, of who he is now. He is not her clay man, not really, but he is real, and that is far better.

 

And, yes – his coarseness starts a little thrum of excitement within her. Only he would ever dare say such a thing, now she is a highborn lady again. Because she is more to him than just that.

 

Yet, the question annoys her. She wonders if he is only attempting to protect his own vulnerabilities, his manner as effective over the years as a shield, but she does not want to be cosseted or held at arm’s length, not by him.

 

“Shall I make it a command?” she replies with a raised eyebrow, invoking his pledge to her that morning.

 

He blows out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and intense arousal, and immediately raises his hips to push down his breeches, looking her in the eye the entire time.

 

“You’ll be the death of me, I swear it, little bird,” he grumbles, but Sansa is too busy admiring him to pay much mind.

 

His legs are long and as heavily muscled as the rest of him. His skin is pale but covered in the same coarse dark hair as on his chest and belly. At the apex is his manhood, stiff and straight with lust. His is the third she has seen, and the biggest. She has never much liked the way they look, but for the first time, her fingers itch with the desire to touch. He is very hard, she can see that. A thick vein pulses lightly up the length, and at the tip he is starting to leak. _He truly desires me_. The realisation coalesces with a jolt. Not her claim, nor her title, nor her resemblance to her long-dead mother. Just Sansa. She had known before, of course, but that is different to understanding.

 

She looks up into grey eyes that pierce her through. “Like what you see, do you?”

 

He is grinning at her, confident that in this aspect, at least, he is impressive. She feels the tug towards him once more, his expression heating her insides as much as the sight of his body. She feels as though she is on fire, being burnt from the inside out, but it is a slow burn, like a fever.

 

“Yes, I do,” she replies, grinning back shyly, and settles at his side once more, hands wrapped around his arm, cheek resting on his shoulder. Then, as he seems to be hesitating, she adds, “I want to stay this time.”

 

He doesn’t ask her if she is sure again, simply raises his free arm and takes himself in hand, a soft grunt emanating from him at the contact.

 

The sight is intoxicating. His hands are large and he pumps himself slowly, the head of his manhood appearing and disappearing through his fist. Now and again he swipes the head with his thumb, spreading the moisture around. His thigh muscles tense with his arousal, and she cannot help but let a hand slip down to rest on the top of his leg so that she may feel the hardness and the strength there.

 

“Tell me about your dreams, little bird,” he asks between pants. She looks away, shy at the thought of sharing that part of her, though that is ridiculous given how very much exposed he has made himself in front of her now.

 

Idly she scrapes her nails through the hair on his leg, watching as he jerks into the touch, almost involuntary.

 

“I was quite young when it first began, you know,” she starts, smiling wryly to herself. “I used to dream about you stealing kisses, or simply embracing me. Innocent things. But there was one dream, it came again and again, I imagined it was you in my marriage bed instead of Tyrion. You were gentle to me, and took my maidenhead, and I would awake sweating and wet between my legs.”

 

Speaking like this makes her feel delightfully wicked and a little self-conscious all at once. But Sandor leans his head back against the bulkhead and moans, stroking himself harder. She licks her lips.

 

“Later, once I knew more, I would imagine doing all sorts of things with you. Putting my mouth on you and… and giving you pleasure. Letting you do the same in return. I would touch myself while thinking such things, under the covers at night. The thought of you… ignited me. No other man could compare.”

 

Her name slips out from between scarred lips, his voice thick with need, and Sansa watches his manhood as he nears his completion. She realises she is urging him on, breathing in time with him. Her hands flutter indecisively with the desire to do something about her own rising need. Heighten it or quell it, she does not know. His skin has broken out in a sheen of sweat and she turns her face into his shoulder, opening her lips against him and tasting him with her tongue.

 

“You are so much better than anything I imagined,” she whispers, and that is what it takes. Sandor’s whole body tenses in beautiful surrender as he releases his seed in spurts across his belly. _Life is never so neat and clean as I once thought it should be,_ Sansa marvels. Sandor is a sweating, heaving, cursing mess, and he has never looked better to her eyes.

 

Not allowing herself to think twice about it, she rises to her knees, leans over and kisses him gently on the lips. He seems to freeze, and Sansa draws back to meet his gaze a moment. His look is more naked even than his body, and Sansa feels the urge to laugh, to weep. Instead, she kisses him again, and when he buries his clean hand in her hair and pulls her more tightly against him, she doesn’t protest at his breaking the rules, only kisses him deeper.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to sit on the next update for a few days to space them out better, but then reasons came along.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Westeroswolf. She knows why.
> 
> Many thanks to my long-suffering beta, Ownsariver. Comments, discussion and constructive crit are welcome.
> 
> ETA 19/5/2014: I have sadly conceded defeat and abandoned this story. Please don't hate me too badly! I may come back to this fandom once the new book is out, but for now my muse has moved on, so no promises. Sorry to disappoint you all, but just wanted to let you know one way or the other (I know it sucks to be left hanging).

Kissing Sandor is like losing herself to sensation. He draws her near and cradles her head and she has never felt so close to another person, so cherished and so alive. She feels the kiss with her whole body, leaning into him like a flower to the sun, shuddering and yearning for more.

 

His lips feel roughened from the wind, hard and unyielding on the burnt side, gone altogether in that corner of his mouth. Yet sweet, so very sweet. There is not one thing about him that could be mistaken for someone else, and nothing she would change.

 

Time passes, though she is lost in him. The candle gutters and dies out, and there is nothing to be seen but the faint pin pricks of light in the night sky beyond their small porthole. Instead, Sansa learns his face with her hands, running her fingers over every crack and bump of scar-hardened skin, and every inch of smooth. His chest heaves tellingly, but she gentles him with soft kisses.

 

Slowly her blood begins to cool. She reluctantly allows him to clean himself and pull his breeches back on, before they feel their way over to the sleeping pallet. She asks him to leave his tunic off. Huddled under their blanket in the perfect darkness with all that expanse of skin to touch, Sansa feels as though she has entered some other world, the one of her memories; the one of her dreams. Pressing close, she kisses him tenderly once more, then tangles her legs with his, winds their fingers together and holds them tucked against her heart.

 

This is the third night they have spent together, yet the first night she has not sunk into sleep like a stone in water. Perhaps it is this, or perhaps it is the darkness heightening her senses, but she can feel how uncomfortable Sandor has suddenly become. Raising his hands to her lips she kisses each of his fingers in turn, smiling when he snorts in ridicule, but smiling wider still when he doesn’t pull away.

 

“How was that, little bird? Better than you imagined?” he rasps quietly. He is teasing her, she knows, but there is also something utterly defenceless in his tone. She knows, suddenly, that he has never kissed a woman before. _How sad,_ she thinks, though it is no worse than her, really, kissed only by monsters and tyrants. _There will be plenty of time to catch up._

“Far better,” she says. She is repeating herself, but she understands how much he needs to hear it, “despite how long I’ve had to think on it.” She smiles again into the dark, remembering. “For a while, I convinced myself that you had kissed me on the night of the Blackwater, you know. I truly believed it had happened, though I remembered later that I had just wished it so.”

 

He stiffens, and this time she _can_ feel him withdrawing from her, though she does not release his hands. “Why in the seven buggering hells would you…” he starts, suddenly angry, but cannot seem to finish. She hears him take one long, deep breath. When he speaks again, he is… not calmer, but contained. “I threatened your life, Sansa. I meant to rape you.”

 

“You would never have done either,” she replies, quiet but forceful and with utmost confidence. She knows so much better, these days. She runs her fingers in circles around the bony lumps of his knuckles as she thinks on what to say next. How to explain. “You did not behave well that night, and that is barely stating the fact. But what you did wasn’t from malice. You did not enjoy it, and neither were you indifferent to my distress. I could _understand,_ because of the fire, because of what you had told me, and that took the fear away.”

 

His laughter is rough, almost snarling.

 

“And so you made the ugly, drunken whoreson the object of your fantasies, is that the right of it? Bloody hells, Sansa. Why not that Tyrell whelp in his fine Kingsguard armour?” His tone still drips with scorn and disbelief, but inside his words, Sansa hears what he is really asking. _Why me?_

 

“I made a strong man who had never hurt me the object of my desperate hopes for something better in life,” she retorts, trying to hold the bitterness in check, though some bleeds through. All of a sudden her rage flies up, like the winter winds howling down from the north and beating at the shutters, and if she lets it in she knows it will do nothing but hollow her out. She does not want it, not here, not now. “You said you did not want me to hide things from you, Sandor,” she reminds him.

 

That seems to prick something in him, as he untangles his hands from hers and tips up her chin with thumb and forefinger. In the perfect dark there are no scars to look at, no eyes to meet, she can only hear his movements as he leans closer. His breath is warm against her face as he hovers, unsure, on the cusp of a kiss.

 

This comfort in the shared warmth of bodies is new to them both, almost painful in its tentative compassion. Yet she has not given him permission, not this time, and he gave his word. She finds she is not yet ready to relinquish that, even to soothe his awkwardness. Instead, she reaches across and cups his cheek with her hand, before shuffling closer into the circle of his arms. After a moment, he draws her close until she is tucked against his bare chest, surrounded by his skin, his scent, and safety.

 

 _Does he understand?_ There are some things about her that he will not like, but they are part of her nonetheless.

 

“I will tell you something more, if you promise not to laugh,” she says after a moment, probing at the edges of his promises. She wants to tell him these things, the words welling up as insistently as ever, demanding she put voice to them. Demanding she remember her name, her story. She does not need to hide behind Alayne any longer, and she does not have to imagine the companion she is speaking to. And yet this all feels so familiar. She wants desperately for it to be real.

 

“Laughing is not chief among my desires right now, little bird,” he grumbles, a hand going to her shoulder and tightening a moment as though what he would really like is to shake some better sense into her. “But I said I would squire for you.” He tugs lightly on the sleeve of her woollen gown. “Though you remain frustratingly clothed,” he adds darkly.

 

It is Sansa who laughs, poking him in the ribs for his insolence. His hands have never strayed beyond her back, her arms, her face, her hair, halting caresses with calloused palms, but showing such care. There is no threat in his words, only the open desire that she will drink in until it slakes her.

 

And an echoing desire, from deep within her. Often faint, but sometimes flaring, a brightness that blinds her. She cannot think too hard on the idea of being naked with him.

 

“Shall I tell you, then?”

 

The hand on her shoulder returns to the small of her back, his other stroking and tugging lightly through her loosened hair. She hums low in relaxed pleasure, and he does it again before answering her, “Yes.”

 

And so she tells him of the other dreams, the ones she liked to take with her through the waking world as well, tucked up small and pocketed somewhere safe. Dreams of friendship and everyday things. Dreams of sitting by him in the calm of the godswood, of taking his arm as they walked, of being cherished as he laid her down among the pine needles. Dreams of his smiles, given to her like gifts, of simple conversations removed of her fright and his disdain. Things she had known to be utter fantasy, and yet wanted nevertheless.

 

She had told him atop the Quiet Isle’s lichyard that she had remade him gentle. She had not lied. Part of her wishes to curl up in shame, for him to hear this from her. Part of her knows she would not have been able to refrain, a new compulsion for honesty after so many lies.

 

When she is finished, his hands have stilled and the silence stretches, and she waits in his arms in the dark. She can hear his heart drumming, a little faster than usual, though for what reason she cannot divine.

 

“You would make of me a better man than I have made of myself, little bird,” he says eventually, rasping and constricted. It takes her a moment to realise that he is, indeed, trying not to laugh.

 

“Are you saying you would not like to sit with me in the summer sun and listen to me singing?” she replies lightly.

 

“I’d rather fuck you,” he rasps, sending tingles shooting down to her toes, “unless you wished away my cock and balls along with everything else.”

 

Sansa grins, though there is a tinge of dismay along with it. “You know I didn’t,” she says. “Not after what I told you earlier.” Yet she knows what he means, and feels embarrassed for it.

 

He does laugh then, but softly, sardonic. “Elder Brother tried to make me a good man for the sake of his gods. He wanted to save my soul. But you…”

 

“I want everything, Sandor,” she replies, clutching him tightly, afraid now that she has overstepped the mark. It occurs to her that she is speaking not just of the present, but of a future in which it truly could come to pass. She wants it all, and every part of him. “Even the darkness I brushed from view,” she adds aloud. She has enough of her own to be accepting of his, now.

 

She knows who it is her heart has chosen, after all. If she had wanted chivalry, she could have thought on Ser Loras all these years. Instead she dreamt of Sandor Clegane.

“Stranger take me if I know why,” he mutters, though he holds her close, hands splayed wide and possessive across her back, and she takes that to be a good sign.

 

 _I know why_ , a small thought, growing in strength, answers from her very core. It is too soon to put voice to it, but before long she knows, these words too will come. She has lost the trick of keeping silent. Perhaps with him, she never had it.

 

Perhaps with him, she never wants it again.


End file.
